


(The Best Things Happen) While You're Dancing

by circ_bamboo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink_meme, <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/330.html?thread=106314#t106314">here</a>: Chapel doesn't know how to dance for an upcoming fancy to-do. McCoy teaches her how. Also for the <a href="http://ineffort.livejournal.com/198749.html">Awesome Ladies Ficathon</a> and, because multi-tasking is nifty, the "unexpected date" square on my <a href="http://circ-bamboo.livejournal.com/5046.html">schmoop_bingo</a> card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(The Best Things Happen) While You're Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> Links on song titles or something similar go to Youtube versions if available; no, it's not Ray Charles singing "Mary Anne." Title filched from _White Christmas_ , [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sf1Ig7382Ho).

Christine Chapel looked around Sickbay. No one was awake at the moment; Ensign Benscoter was still knocked out from her surgery and the other two patients were sleeping naturally, despite the fact that it was the middle of the morning. Dr. McCoy was safely ensconced in his office, albeit with the door open, and was probably buried in reports. The other nurses on duty were nowhere to be seen, so she was probably safe. Picking up her padd, she ducked into the supply cabinet and started counting vials.

When nothing changed in the next moment or so, she stepped—lightly and carefully—forward, side together, backward, side together, repeat. The video had used ["Mack the Knife"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEllHMWkXEU) as the couple demonstrated the basic steps, and she found herself humming it a few moments later.

 _356 vials of flu shots._ She tapped on the padd and continued practicing as she moved on to counting vials of antihistamines.

"Chapel!" she heard McCoy roar, and sighed. Plastering on her dealing-with-unreasonable-bosses face, she went to the door of his office and looked in.

He frowned at her. "Where's the paperwork from Ensign Benscoter's surgery?"

She tapped on the padd she was holding and held it out to him. "Right here, sir."

Dr. McCoy looked mollified. "Thanks; dismissed." He returned to his paperwork, and she left, waiting until she was out of his line of sight to shake her head and find another padd.

She returned to her inventory and waited a few moments before she started the box step again, humming quietly. Concentrating on both her feet and counting the rolls of compression tape, she didn't notice Dr. McCoy come up behind her until he drawled, "Nurse Chapel, what in hell are you doing in here?"

She squeezed her eyes shut for half a second before she turned to him and said, calmly,

"Inventory, sir."

"While dancing?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

She turned pink, but kept her gaze level. "While we're on earth in two months, Dr. McCoy, I'll be attending the wedding of an old friend." _For various values of 'old friend.'_

"Ahh," he said. "And you need to be Ginger Rogers by then?"

"That's one way to put it," she said, turning back to the vials. "If you'll excuse me?"

"Not yet, Chapel," he said. "Did you know that you're dancing the men's part on that box step?"

She turned a bit pinker, but didn't look away from her task. "It's the twenty-third century, Dr. McCoy. Women lead."

"Well, if you'd like to learn how to lead the foxtrot, I can help with that," he said. At her look, he said, "What? It's the twenty-third century. Men follow."

"You know how to dance, sir?" she said dubiously.

He snorted. "I'm from Georgia, remember? I'm surprised you managed to grow up in the South and not learn all the cotillion dances."

Her eyes narrowed. "Not all of us had fathers who were doctors, Dr. McCoy." She turned back to the inventory.

"My apologies, Miss Chapel," he said. "My quarters, 1900."

"Excuse me, sir?" She narrowed her eyes and gave him the Glare of Death.

"It's not an order, Chapel," he said hastily. "If you'd like to learn how to dance properly, I'm offering to teach you, and that ex of yours won't know what hit him."

She blinked, bemused, and said, "I'll consider your offer. Thank you, Dr. McCoy." She turned back to the inventory shelf. He'd figure out he'd been dismissed soon enough.

"You're welcome. As you were," he said, and left.

1855 found Christine pacing the hallway by his quarters. This was skirting on the edge of acceptable, by Starfleet regulations. Except, well, this was about dancing. Right? They were friends, right? He was doing her a favor. So what if he was, well, tall, dark, and handsome? And a genius? He was annoying most of the time; barely polite on a good day. Not in the least attractive. _Keep telling yourself that, Christine._ She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and touched her fingers to the annunciator.

"Nurse Chapel," he said, when she entered. His quarters were neat; she approved of the hospital-sharp corners on his bunk. There were a few holos on each of the flat surfaces; she recognized his daughter Joanna and the captain in a couple of the shots.

"Christine," she replied. "Only since we're off-duty."

"Well, then, I suppose I'm Leonard. Tell me about this wedding you've got," he said. "Most people don't need to know how to dance for a wedding reception."

She sighed. "The bride and groom are professional retro dancers."

"Oh," he said. "What period?"

"The 1940s. It's not expected, I guess, that all guests learn to dance, but . . ." Christine spread her hands.

"But he's your ex," McCoy—Leonard said. "Why are you going to the wedding in the first place?"

"He's marrying my first cousin," she said. With whom he had taken up less than two weeks after breaking it off with her. _Stay classy, Steve._

"Oh," he said. "Well then."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I know. I almost considered asking Captain Kirk to get us back three days late, so I wouldn't have to go, but that's a little below me."

Leonard laughed. "He'd do it, you know."

"I do know," she admitted. "So what do I need to learn?"

"For the 1940s? Foxtrot, east coast, lindy hop, some charleston, a Latin dance or two, waltz just for the heck of it, and if you're feeling particularly advanced, the balboa, although that's primarily the 1930s." He ticked the dances off on his fingers.

"How do you know all this?" she asked, looking at him askance.

"Cotillion," he said, pushing a hand through his hair and obviously, from her perspective, lying.

"I may not have done cotillion, but even I know they wouldn't teach half those dances," she said, raising an eyebrow at him. "I've seen Steve and Jen dance balboa. That's not appropriate for debutantes. Besides, you would have stopped doing cotillion at sixteen or so, and you wouldn't remember most of these however many years later."

"You'd be surprised what I can remember," Leonard said, but rolled his eyes. "Jocelyn, the ex, liked to dance. I liked to spend time with her. Turned out I didn't entirely suck at it."

"Oh," Christine said. _Whoops._ "I'm sorry. I was expecting that maybe you moonlighted as a dance instructor while in med school or something." He raised an eyebrow, but she held her ground. "Stranger things have happened, Dr. McCoy."

"Leonard," he corrected. "Let's start with east coast swing. It's the simplest. Do you have any musical training?"

"I have eight years of ballet," she said. At his look, she said, "I implied that my family wasn't rich, Leonard, not that we were poor."

"Fair enough," he said. "Would you prefer to mirror my movements or follow from behind?"

"Mirror," she said. She did not want to have to stare at his rear end for that long.

"All right. The basic step is step, step, rock step . . . "

Something about his voice and the rhythmic pattern of dance teaching engaged some dormant circuitry in her brain and she stood a little straighter; her shoulders pulled back, and she became more fully aware of the placement of her arms and legs. All she needed was the pink tutu, she thought, and suppressed a smile.

An hour later, he pronounced her competent in the basics of east coast swing. "You're doing awfully well," he said, and she flushed a bit at the unexpected compliment.

"I think that's enough for one evening?" she said, feeling a trickle of sweat drip down her neck.

"Yeah," he said. "Same time, next week?"

"Sure," she said, and smiled.

* * *

Christine stared at the electronic RSVP form for a full minute before touching her stylus to the "+1" box and hitting send before she could change her mind. If all else failed, she thought with a touch of hysteria, she'd see if Nyota would lend her Spock for a few hours.

* * *

The next week, Leonard taught her how to foxtrot; a week later, they did the cha-cha and rumba; the following week, as he taught her how to lindy-hop and they flew around in circles, she said, "You're really quite good at this."

"Thank you," he said, looking surprised for a moment and then faintly pleased. "You're learning really quickly."

"Thanks," Christine said. After the song ended, she looked away and took a deep breath. Did she want to do this? Yeah, she did. "Do you have plans for shore leave?"

"Nope," he said. "It wasn't scheduled a year in advance, so I don't get to see Joanna. May go out drinking with Jim."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, and he nodded. "But if you're not busy on 301, I did RSVP for myself plus one to the reception." She said it quickly, but he understood.

"I'm not busy," he said just as quickly. "Jim can find another wingman."

"Okay," she said, smiling. _There. That's done. Now, don't think about it._ "So what's next?"

"Well, now you get to switch back and forth between lindy-hop and east coast," he said, and they kept dancing.

* * *

Four more lessons and it was a week before shoreleave, and Leonard had asked that Christine meet him in the rec room on Deck C. She got there early, pushed the chairs and tables off to the sides, and went over to the console in the wall to set up the music.

He arrived, and she turned to smile at him. He didn't quite smile back—he never really did—and said, "There's a playlist in there called 'Random.' Let's see what you know."

"Okay." She punched it up and hit play, returning to the middle of the room. Leonard stepped forward and held out a hand, and she took it. _Oh, dear._ Most weeks—most days, actually—she managed to forget that she was dancing with her CO, who also happened to be arguably the best-looking man on the ship. Once in a while, though, maybe when she was handing him a laser scalpel or when he gave her a nod after a particularly grueling surgery—or when he took her hand—it would hit her in a wash of . . . yes, all right, she could think it in the privacy of her own mind: a wash of _desire_ that flooded down her spine.

This was, unfortunately, one of those times, and he was pulling her into his arms—that is, into proper dance frame—and leading her into a cha-cha.

"Well now, ol' Mary Ann, you sure look fine," sang Ray Charles on the [recording](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLalU0-lL2g).

Either Dr. McCoy knew she was distracted or it was just a coincidence, but he started with some of the more difficult moves, and Christine had to concentrate hard enough that she stopped thinking about his hands and started thinking about her feet. It worked for about thirty seconds, and then the song switched from a cha-cha into swing. She knew it was coming, knew the song, but missed his cue and went careening into him instead of stopping.

She crashed into him, full-length, forehead hitting his chin and the entire front of her hitting the entire front of him. Jumping back immediately—but not before she registered the hard heat of his body against hers—she said, "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, Leonard. Shit. Are you okay?"

He rubbed his chin. "You know, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you curse properly."

Christine raised both eyebrows at him and although she tried to hold it in, burst out laughing.

Leonard shook his head and held out a hand, and she took it. "I'm fine," he said. "Let's lindy."

She made it through the rest of the transitions without further mishap. The [next song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5ndoBdm0yY) started as a waltz—she didn't recognize it, but counted one-two-three and rose on her toes at the appropriate time. When it switched into swing, she was sort of expecting it this time and caught his lead properly.

At the end of the song, she said, "Did you find an entire hour's worth of songs that switch styles in the middle?"

"Well, now, Christine, if I told you, that would be cheatin'," he said.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ She'd just gotten herself under control and then he drawled at her. She'd grown up in _New Orleans_ , damnit. She was _not_ susceptible to something as inferior as a _Georgia_ accent. Except, of course, she was, and she shivered.

"Cold?" he asked.

She shook her head. "What's next on the roulette?"

"Let's find out."

It was a fast swing tune, followed by a couple of Latin numbers, and then a foxtrot. She'd long since determined that Leonard was best at foxtrot, probably because he'd learned it more than once, and that he was most comfortable leading it. She could just picture him in a tuxedo and herself in some sort of glamorous green dress and heels— _No, Christine_ , she thought. _That way lies madness._

The song ended, but he didn't let go right away; she looked up to see his dark eyes mere inches away from her own. His eyes dropped to her lips and she leaned in just a tiny bit—and abruptly recalled the situation. "I've got to go," Christine said, and pulled away. "Thank you so much I'll see you tomorrow." She escaped out the door without a second look and didn't stop until she was in her quarters, her back against the wall. _Oh, shit._

* * *

On shift, Dr. McCoy treated her exactly the same as he always had: gruffly, but with respect. He asked, the day before shore leave, about some details of the wedding, but in the same tone he used to discuss the daily reports. She replied in kind and forwarded him a copy of the invitation. There was no mention of the almost-kiss, and if she were lucky, there never would be.

* * *

A few days later, she beamed down to San Francisco and caught a shuttle to New Orleans; from there, she took a hovercab to her parents' house. "Mama, Dad, I'm here."

"Chrissy? We're in here, hon." It was the middle of the afternoon, and her parents—both retired—were apparently in the living room. She set her duffel bag down by the stairs and went to greet them.

"Oh, Chrissy!" her mother, Lauren Chapel, said, standing to hug and kiss her. "We're so glad you could make it to Jen's wedding."

Her father, Patterson Chapel, did not stand; she saw the walker next to his chair and realized it was a 'bad' day, so she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "Hi, Daddy. How's it going?"

"Oh, you know," he said. "Good days and bad days." He'd had an incurable and only moderately-treatable version of Parkinson's disease for ten years, and he'd acquired a certain sense of complacency about it. "It's so good to see you, dear. I worry about you up on that bucket of bolts."

"It's pretty safe up there," she said. "I just clean up after everyone else makes a mess."

"Oh, I'm sure you do more than that," her mother said, and Christine acknowledged it with a gesture. "So Lisa tells me you're bringing a plus-one to the reception. Were you going to tell us who he is?"

Christine winced. This was the problem with bringing people to family weddings, even as friends—there really were no secrets. "He's just a friend." As soon as she said it, she almost smacked herself in the forehead. "No, really." _And that probably made it worse._

Patterson Chapel's eyebrows were raised as high as they could go. "A friend."

"Yes." There had to be somewhere else on the planet she should be.

"A male friend."

Or maybe another planet. She sighed. "Dad, I'm twenty-six. I have male friends. A lot of them. I'm friends with Captain James T. Kirk." As soon as she said _that_ , she knew it was a winner.

"Oh!" her mother said. "Captain James T. Kirk! What kind of person is he?"

Fortunately, they didn't question her about her plus-one again.

* * *

The next day, though, her mother caught sight of Dr. McCoy before she did. "Oh! Christine, that handsome man over there is wearing a match to your costume!"

He was. Her parents were wearing normal wedding-going clothes, but Christine had decided to dress in period costume, and she was wearing a World War II army nurse replica uniform, complete with skirt and heels. They'd just gotten to the church—St. Louis Cathedral, of course; why would Aunt Lisa and Uncle Roy spare any expense?—and Christine had been craning her neck, trying to find Leonard, when her mother made her comment, fortunately quietly enough that even her father didn't hear. "Yep, that's him, Mom," she said, and slipped away.

She placed a hand on Leonard's shoulder, and he turned. _Damn, but he is gorgeous._ "You came in uniform," she said, smiling and touching the medic patch on his shoulder.

"So did you," he said, and offered her his arm.

She could almost hear her mother clapping her gloved hands, so she said, "I hate to do this to you, but if I don't introduce you to my parents, my father is going to come after you with a shotgun and my mother is going to explode."

Leonard gave a short bark of laughter. "Oh?"

"Yeah," she said, leading him through the crowd. "Look, I apologize for everything my parents are going to say, and all of my other relatives, and I'll buy you a nice big bottle of bourbon after this is over, but—"

"Christine," he said, interrupting, "don't worry about it. I have family, too. I even have Southern relatives."

"Psh," she said. "Georgia. That's _different._ "

"Well, then you can still buy me that bourbon," he said, just before they reached her parents.

She shot him a look, and said, "Mama, Daddy, this is Leonard McCoy. Dr. McCoy, my mother, Lauren Chapel, and my father, Patterson Chapel."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, holding out a hand. "Sir."

"McCoy?" Lauren Chapel turned to Christine. "Isn't that the name of your boss on the _Enterprise_?"

"Yes, ma'am," Leonard said. "Chief Medical Officer, U.S.S. _Enterprise_. But don't let that fool you. Your daughter runs Sickbay, not me."

She couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she glared at McCoy while her parents looked at him adoringly. She could almost hear the gears turning in her mother's head as she said, "Oh, we are ever so glad to make your acquaintance! Christine has told us exactly nothing about you. So you're a doctor."

"A trauma surgeon by training, but I'm the de facto general practitioner for the ship," he said.

"We should probably sit down," Christine interjected, watching her father wobble a little. Her mother agreed, and Dr. McCoy offered his arm again.

Christine heard Leonard suck in a breath as they entered the nave; with the vaulted ceilings and gold leaf, it was definitely worth a look or two. She watched him as he craned his head to see as much of the walls as possible. They sat in a pew relatively close to the front, as was proper being that Mrs. Chapel was the bride's godmother, and it afforded them a good look at the chancel.

He leaned over after a few minutes and murmured in her ear, "It may have been worth it all just to see this church."

"It's a cathedral," she corrected, and he smiled and shook his head. "Oh, dear, I did tell you it's a full Catholic mass, right?"

"Yes," he said, "and you already apologized for it twice. I have cousins who are Southern Baptist. I've sat through longer services."

Just then the organ started playing, and Christine flipped through the fifteen-page, real-paper program to see what was happening.

Dr. McCoy obviously hadn't been raised Catholic, as he fumbled through crossing himself and almost recited the last part of the Lord's Prayer that the priest was supposed to say alone, but he kept up remarkably well. Every time she thought about it, Christine felt another wave of embarrassment that she'd invited him. This was so far above and beyond the call of duty, even for a friend, that she could only wonder why he had even agreed.

As Jen and Steve recited their vows, Christine felt a tear run down her face, and then two more. Before she knew it, Leonard had turned to her and handed her a real white cloth handkerchief, the kind she knew he didn't carry normally because it was unhygienic and she'd heard him ratting out an ensign about one once. She accepted it with as much of a smile as she could manage under the circumstances and wiped her face carefully. Tucking the handkerchief inside her right hand, she tried as hard as she could not to burst into full-blown tears—it was a wedding, after all—and clenched her left hand in her skirt.

Leonard shifted, and carefully placed his right hand over her left. When she didn't jump—actually, she held her breath because she was afraid _he'd_ jump—he detached her fingers from her skirt and curled them around his.

She watched the process with the same curious sort of distance that allowed her to stare into the interiors of bodies and respond with "Yes, sir," when the surgeon asked for a scalpel or some other instrument. That is, until she realized that she was sitting in a cathedral at a _wedding_ , holding hands with Leonard McCoy with her parents approximately six inches away, and all she could think after that was, _He likes me. Oh, God._

And finally she realized why he was willing—no, eager—to teach her to dance and why he said 'yes' quickly when she asked if he'd want to accompany her to the reception and why he hadn't freaked out at the idea of so many of her family members and why he'd known and cared enough to find a uniform that matched hers even though all she'd said was 'I think I'm going to wear period dress' and why sometimes, like at the last dance lesson, he _looked_ at her and wasn't it fucking absurd? Because while she'd figured out quite a while ago that she'd definitely like to see him naked, it took sitting in a fucking cathedral at a fucking _wedding_ to figure out that _she liked him too_.

And she'd just thought the word "fuck" while sitting in a cathedral at a _wedding_. Repeatedly. It was all she could do to keep from laughing hysterically.

Leonard's thumb stroked the back of her hand, and she realized she was grasping his fingers perhaps a bit more than she should. She relaxed, and mouthed "sorry" at him. He nodded once, and she returned her attention to the mass.

It was over before she knew it, and they were on their feet (other than Mr. Chapel), watching the happy, laughing bride and groom process out. Eventually there was a reception line, and Christine was kissed and poked and prodded by her mother's entire family. She couldn't count the number of times that she said, "No, he's just a friend," but she did know that it made her stomach hurt every time.

By the time they reached the end of the line, she was faintly nauseated and ready to get the hell out of New Orleans. Looking out front, she saw her parents' hovercar sitting just in front of the bride's and groom's limo, and turned to see her parents climbing down the stairs carefully. Leonard saw her turn, followed her gaze, and asked, "Would it be okay if I offered to help?"

Christine's eyes filled again, stupid tear ducts, and she nodded, blinking rapidly. He pressed his hand to her shoulder briefly and walked over to her parents. She couldn't hear what he said, but her mother smiled and her father let him help him to the 'car. "We're going home," her mother said when Christine came up to her, while the men were busy. "Your father's had enough for one day."

"Of course," Christine said, kissing her mother on one cheek. "I'll be home after the reception."

Lauren Chapel raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't think you will be."

"What?"

Her mother stage-whispered, "You never told us he was so handsome. And a Southerner! Don't let this one escape!"

She whispered back, "Mama! Please! We aren't—"

"Oh, Chrissy, don't try to fool me. I've seen how he looks at you. If you aren't _yet_ , well, you should be. See you later, sweetheart." Her mother kissed her and went to the 'car.

Christine waved at her father, whose fingers twitched as he waved back. McCoy closed the 'car door and returned to her, offering his arm. "What now, _Chrissy_?"

She pulled back, stared at him, and started laughing. "Can we get out of here for a bit? I need a break from my well-meaning relatives."

"Of course," he said. "I assume you know somewhere we could go?"

She nodded, and they walked, arm-in-arm, to a little deli nearby, and got coffee and pastries. Christine tried to explain how everyone was related, including drawing out a little family tree, but got lost around her third cousins once removed on _mémère_ Dutoit's side. Leonard just laughed at her, not unkindly.

After a thoroughly innocuous conversation, she felt she had everything under control. "Once more, into the breach?" she said.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think so," she said. "Can't avoid them forever."

"Well, you _could_ ," Leonard said, "but then you'd have wasted all those dance lessons." He paused, and then said, "Can I ask you a question first?"

"Sure," she said.

"How long has your father been sick?"

Her stomach dropped. "About ten years," she said. "You can't fix it, Dr. McCoy." She started to stand, but his hand on hers stopped her.

"I wasn't going to try, Christine," he said, emphasizing her first name. "If it's been ten years, they've apparently got him stable and there's not much I can do. I was going to offer sympathy."

Christine looked at him, really _looked_ at him, and saw sympathy, yes, but also thinly-veiled grief. _Oh._ "Thank you," she said, and before she could think about it too much, she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "Let's go."

He nodded, and stood.

"Leonard?" she asked, and he looked up. "Who was it?"

He didn't bother to pretend he didn't know what she was asking. "My father. Pyrrhoneuritis."

"Oh," she said. Ugly, degenerative disease. _Shit._ What the hell did you say to that? You didn't. She held out a hand, and he took it, and they walked, hand in hand, silently, to the reception.

* * *

Aunt Lisa and Uncle Roy hadn't spared any expense on the reception, either. It was held at a historical recreation of a 20th-century hotel, only a few blocks from the cathedral. Steve and Jen showed up in a horse-drawn carriage, and everyone cheered and clapped as they entered the ballroom.

 _To be fair_ , Christine thought, _they do look exceptionally happy._ She and Leonard turned out to be seated at a table with some other aunts and uncles and cousins, and they chatted politely and distractedly about Jen and Steve and Starfleet until dinner was over and the dancing began.

The couple's first dance was ["Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWvuB1vSsAc) which made Leonard snort into his napkin.

"What?" Christine asked.

"I've seen _Swing Kids_ ," he said.

"I haven't," Christine said. "What is it?"

"A movie from the late 20th century about swing dancers in Nazi Germany. This song plays at the end and the main character dances to it when his entire world is falling apart."

It was Christine's turn to snort into her napkin. "Jen never did have great taste in music."

A few songs later, Jen and Steve's friends had overtaken most of the floor, and the party was in full swing, so to speak. The band started a new [tune](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVI1uttPhzY%E2%80%9D), a deep bluesy groove, and Leonard stood, shrugged out of his jacket, held out his hand, and said, "Christine, would you favor me with a dance?"

She stood, having long since ditched her own jacket, put on her best New Orleans-Southern belle accent, and replied, "Why, yes, Leonard, I think that would be just lovely." Her Aunt Ida snickered behind her, but Leonard just shook his head and led her onto the dance floor, finding a relatively-clear patch.

They started slow, with standard east-coast swing. Christine was acutely aware, for the first few bars at least, that a significant portion of her family was staring at her, and that it was very likely that she'd sweat her thin white shirt into transparency, but before too long the music and the feel and his strong lead took primacy in her brain and she just _danced_ , following him into lindy-hop and even catching the breaks in the song.

When it finished, she grinned at him, her chest heaving. "That was fun," she said. "Again?"

Leonard looked at her for a moment, clearly amused, and then almost—but not quite—smiled at her. "Yeah, sure," he said. The band launched into a Latin number, and they launched into a cha-cha.

Three or four songs later, they surfaced. "I need a drink," Christine said. "Water. Not the other kind. Although maybe that, too."

They sat back down with ice water and beers. "Thank God it's a free bar," she said as they watched the dancers. Everyone else had scattered while they were dancing, and they had the table to themselves. "Although that may be why so many relatives came."

"Ha," Leonard said.

A moment or two later, the bride came over—Jen, who, as far as looks were concerned, wasn't related to Christine at all. She was tiny, wiry, and red-headed, with bright red lipstick and white wedge heels under her vintage-style wedding dress. "Chrissy!" she said. "I saw you _dancing_! When did you learn?"

"Recently," Christine said. "Lots of downtime out in space, you know."

"And you—" Jen said, turning to Leonard. "I don't remember your name, but we are dancing. Right now!" She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of his chair.

He shot Christine a look she couldn't quite interpret, but she nodded anyway. "Have fun," she said. "Jen's a much better dancer than I am."

He nodded, once, and turned to Jen. "Ma'am, I'd be honored to dance with you on your wedding day."

"Oh, God, Chrissy, he's well-trained, too," Jen said. "Let's go!"

Jen really was a much better dancer; in addition, she was much easier to fling around, being a foot shorter than Leonard, rather than the four or five inches Christine lacked compared to him. However, as she watched them dance, she realized that something was—off. Jen couldn't quite read his cues, or maybe he wasn't reading hers. He was holding himself stiffly, maybe in his shoulders. It only took her a moment or two more to realize that he just wasn't comfortable dancing with Jen—which made her obliquely happy.

As they danced, Steve came over, standing by Christine's table. "Hey, Chrissy," he said. "Thanks so much for coming."

"It's a great party," she replied.

"I saw you dancing out there," he said. "Looking good. Starfleet seems to be agreeing with you."

"You and Jen look so happy," she said, again noncommittally.

"I hope he's good enough for you," Steve said. "Cousin."

She shot him a sidelong glance. As sick as she was of denying that she and Leonard were together, there was something entirely _wrong_ about this conversation. Fortunately Jen and Leonard appeared before she actually had to reply.

"Steve!" Jen threw herself into her husband's arms. "Chrissy's doctor friend was just telling me all about Captain Kirk! Can you believe that he and Captain Kirk were roommates at the academy?"

Steve looked suitably impressed with that, and while the newlyweds were distracted, Christine liberated Leonard's hand from Jen's and pulled him back onto the dance floor. It was a slower song, and they relaxed into a foxtrot. "I'm sorry," she said, after a minute or two.

"Don't apologize," he said. "There's no good way to avoid dancing with the bride if she wants to dance with you. I should apologize for leaving you alone with the groom."

"He was trying to be nice, I think. How much longer before we can go?" she asked wistfully.

"It's your family social event," he said. "You get to choose when we leave."

She looked up at him and said, before she lost her nerve, "And when we leave, where are we going?"

For the instant before he replied, she heard a rushing in her ears, and it seemed like they were the only two people on the dance floor. His hand tightened on her shoulder blade, and he said, low and warm, "Where do you want us to go?"

His gaze was direct, but she met it easily, confident in his non-work presence for the first time in weeks. "You've got a room upstairs, right?"

He nodded.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand," she said with a smile, and he returned it, openly, as she'd never seen him smile before. Her stomach clenched, or maybe it was her heart.

He straightened up his dance frame, pulling her into doing the same, and led her through a flashy combination of turns and twists. She followed easily, his cues going straight from his frame to her body, bypassing her brain in exactly the way it should. They moved together like parts of the same being, or perhaps like long-term lovers. It was exhilarating and sensual and _exactly_ what she needed and wanted at that moment. She almost gasped when the song ended. Leonard kept one hand on her waist, though, as he led her off the dance floor, and she was grateful for the connection even as she realized that half of her family was watching.

They made their excuses to the bride and groom and a few carefully-selected relatives, and escaped to the lobby of the hotel. While they waited for the ancient, carefully-restored 20th-century elevator, he spoke. "Christine, I—"

"Oh, no," she said.

"No?" Leonard asked.

"No," she said. "No, this is not because we're at a wedding, or a family event, or at an event starring one of my ex-boyfriends. No, this is not going to affect work. And no, I'm not going to allow you to be a gentleman and kiss me on my parents' verandah."

He looked at her a moment, and laughed. "Christine, I would never have accused you of not knowing your own mind."

She laughed as well.

"I was going to say that I'm on the seventh floor," he said, "but I appreciate the reassurance that I'm not some sort of revenge."

"If I were going for revenge, or to shock my family, I would have taken—I don't know, Gaila, maybe."

His eyebrow shot up, and he laughed again. "If you ever bring Gaila to visit your family, make sure you get a video."

"My mother would adore her," Christine protested, but her lips twisted into a smile.

The elevator dinged, and they got inside, pressing the old round light-up button for the seventh floor. Leonard still had her hand, and had started rubbing circles into the back of her hand with his thumb again; it was oddly soothing and arousing at the same time. Neither said anything until they got inside the hotel room, which was locked with what looked like an old-fashioned door key.

The room was, like most hotel rooms, dominated by a king-sized bed; his suitcase sat on the chair on the far side of the bed. A door to her right led to a bathroom; she peeked inside and saw a real water shower and a thrillingly-large bathtub.

Christine removed her uniform jacket and draped it over the chair by the desk; she turned to see Leonard hanging his in the closet. He saw her watching him and smiled before saying, "Before we get too far into this, if I were to look in your medical records, what might I find?"

Ah. "I'm four years into a five-year implant," she said, "and I tested clean both six months ago and five weeks ago. No one since. Hell, no one since we set off. You?"

"Shots all up-to-date; tested clean seven months ago and two weeks ago. No one since the ambassador who inexplicably preferred me to Jim about eight months ago."

"I remember that," Christine said, unable to keep the sharp tone from her voice. "Sorry," she added.

"I thought you might have been jealous. You were a little out of sorts that week."

"It was none of my business how you spent your spare time," she said.

"It is now," he said. "That is—" His cheekbones reddened appealingly. "Not trying to make assumptions," he muttered.

She gave him a slow, leisurely once-over, head to toe and then back again, as she unbuttoned her shirt. "No, Dr. Leonard McCoy, I do not think I'll be happy with just one night."

"Good," he said, taking two steps forward to bat her hands away and finish unbuttoning her shirt himself. "Do you want to use condoms?"

"Not unless you do," she said, starting to unbutton his shirt.

"I don't," he said.

"Good," she said. "Now kiss me."

He did, slowly and carefully, as if she were going to disappear if he wasn't gentle. His tongue flickered against hers as she finished unbuttoning his shirt and pushed the halves wide, wishing he hadn't worn an undershirt. His fingers were working their way beneath her camisole. _Damn, period dress is a bitch,_ she thought. Breaking the kiss, she said, "We could just both strip."

"Oh, no," he said, voice rough, hands still moving against her skin. "I finally get to undress you, I'm going to do it properly."

Damnit, he was _drawling_ again. Not _fair_. "Okay," she said, and tipped her face up to kiss him again, this time less tentatively, less carefully. He wasn't a small man, and she wasn't a small woman. She knew he could probably pick her up; she'd felt his strength when they danced, and she wanted some of it. No, all of it. Slanting her head, she bit his lower lip and reached for one of his wrists, to undo the button at his cuff.

"Not yet," he murmured against her lips, although he let her unbutton both cuffs and push the shirt off his shoulders to the floor. "I don't want to rip the costume."

"Mmm," she said, and leaned back just enough to strip off his undershirt. "Okay," she said. "I've got you shirtless. I'll be preoccupied for a moment."

He laughed, and let her explore his chest with her eyes and hands as he carefully removed the shirt, flinging it at the desk chair. Next he pulled the camisole over her head slowly, trailing his fingertips over every inch of revealed skin. She shivered and dug her nails lightly into his shoulders until she had to raise her hands over her head. He stared at her bra, lacy and white but not all that interesting, for longer than she felt necessary. "The clasp is in the back," she said.

"I know," he said. "I'll get there."

She sighed. "Can round two be fast and furious?"

His eyes darkened. "Fast and furious against the wall, if you like," he said, his fingers brushing her bra straps down to place a kiss on her shoulder.

"Okay," she said, her breath hitching. "I'll relax. Really. I promise."

Leonard smiled at her, again, face unguarded. It made him look a good five years younger, she thought. "We'll never have a second chance for a first time together, and I want to enjoy every single moment and every single inch of you, Christine darlin'."

She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Well, don't stop there," she said, voice shaking.

"I would never do that," he murmured against her collarbone, nipping at it as his hands cupped her breasts through the bra. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, which peaked at his touch, and he bent down to suck one into his mouth through the lace. She gasped at the rough-hot-wet suction and buried her hands in his hair. He switched to the other breast, and she gasped all over again.

When he finally released her and undid the hooks on the back of her bra, she was trembling already. _I am not going to last very long,_ she thought, and stretched up to kiss him again, all wet heat and urgency. He stripped the bra down her arms quickly and dropped it on the floor, all before he broke the kiss to look at her with a combination of reverence and lust that would have immediately soaked her panties if they hadn't been wet for the last half hour. Cupping her breasts again, he stroked them for only a moment before he dropped his hands to her waist. "You're still wearing an awful lot of clothing," he said, and guided her to sit on the edge of the bed.

"So are you," she pointed out as he knelt in front of her and unbuckled her left shoe. "But you're more than welcome to continue this."

"Why, thank you," he said, raising one eyebrow.

She laughed, and he slid the shoe off her foot and dug his thumbs into the sole for a moment. "Oh," she said. "Ohhhhh."

"Later," he promised, and set to work on her other shoe. Once she was shoeless, he said, "Stockings or hose?"

"Stockings," she said, "but you could find that out yourself."

"I could," he agreed. "Were you planning this?" He was breathing just a bit faster, and she looked at the front of his pants for confirmation. Yep; they were tented with what looked like a rather impressive erection. Not that she really cared all that much about size; with what he could do with his hands on her feet, she had no doubt that there were many orgasms in her future. If he were well-endowed, that would be icing on an already mouth-watering cake.

But he'd asked her a question before she got distracted thinking about his dick. What was it? _Right._ "No," she said. "Historical accuracy. I'm glad you approve, though."

"Next time," he said, "I'm going to watch you take these off yourself."

"Oh, would you like that?" she said, grinning. In response, he slid his hands up her left leg until he reached the top of the stocking, his fingertips just above the nylon. She shivered and thought about squirming down until his fingers were right where she wanted them, but decided not to. He hadn't disappointed her yet.

After tracing the top of the stocking, he unclipped it from the belt and drew it down her leg slowly, so slowly. By the time the stocking was puddled around her ankle, she was panting. "I'm going to come without you even touching me," she said, flexing her fingers where they rested on his shoulders.

He looked up at her, startled. "Yeah, probably me too," he admitted. "Let's step this up a bit."

Leonard removed her second stocking with somewhat less fanfare if no less sensuality, and then stood her up to strip off her skirt and half-slip with a more reasonable amount of speed. She stood in front of him in her panties and garter belt for a moment, as he stroked down her sides. "I have always loved your legs," he said.

"I have always loved your butt," she said, reaching to grab the body part in question. "Can I see it, or are you going to finish undressing me?"

"You go for it," he said, taking half a step back so she could get her hands on his belt, and then button and fly. He groaned as her hands brushed his erection, and she wrapped one around him and squeezed for a moment, just for fun.

His trousers slid down easily, but she knelt in front of him and helped him out of one boot and sock at a time before removing the pants all the way and throwing them towards the chair by the bed. She felt his hand on her head, and she looked up to see him staring down at her intensely. _What—oh._ She grinned wickedly and dragged off his boxer-briefs—Starfleet regulation black, how boring—quickly before blowing on the head of his— _oh yes_ —decidedly impressive cock.

He groaned again, and she dragged her tongue up it from root to tip before kissing the head and standing. "You're not getting off that easily," she said, lips quirking.

"Damnit, woman, is anything ever easy with you?"

"I think I've been pretty easy this evening," she said, grabbing his rear end again and digging in her nails. "Mmmm. Nice."

He pulled her full-length against him, her breasts pressed to the wall of his chest, one of his thighs between hers, rubbing against the cotton of her panties. _Finally!_ She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him with everything she had.

Leaning back, he shoved her panties down her hips until they fell to the floor, and the garter belt after them. She kicked them off and wrapped one leg around the back of his, grinding them together. "God, Christine," he said, voice rough and vowels elongated, and she bit his shoulder to stifle her moan. Reaching up, he worked his fingers into her hair until he found the hairpin that held it all together—how he knew which pin it was, she didn't know, but he pulled it out and a few more and her hair fell down past her shoulders in waves. She picked out a couple remaining pins, flinging them away, and he finger-combed her hair into something orderly.

"You have _no_ idea how long I've wanted to do that," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, so it worked?" she said, but ruined the joke with a gasp as he brushed his knuckles over the crease where her hip met her thigh.

Leonard chuckled, then bent down and licked at her breast, sucking on the nipple again. It distracted her enough that she was surprised when she landed flat on her back on the bed, the blankets having been thrown to one side. "Oh," she said, and grinned, reaching for him.

He went easily, his hands sliding under her shoulders, one leg between hers. She tried to touch him everywhere all at once, rubbing one foot against his calf, her hands sweeping up and down his back, her mouth on his earlobe. He was— _hopefully_ —not leaving marks on her neck where they'd show, but at that point it felt so damn good she didn't really care.

After a few minutes, he dotted a few kisses down her sternum and abdomen before sliding his hands under her rear and kissing each hip. "This okay?" he asked.

She propped herself up on her elbows. "Yes, please!"

He smiled and kissed her right above her pubic hair before sliding his other leg between hers. She helpfully spread her thighs wider, and he blew a stream of air right onto her clit while touching her with the tip of one finger. "Well now," he said. "I might think you're looking forward to this."

"Only a little," she said, her voice shaking as she watched him part her folds with one finger and lean in to slide his tongue over her. She fell back with a moan as he thrust his tongue inside her and settled his lips over her clit, sucking.

His tongue traveled in strange patterns that distracted her briefly. "Are you tracing out the alphabet?" she asked, after a moment.

"Is it working?" he asked, looking up at her, the lower two-thirds of his face shiny.

"Fuck, yes," she said, and he chuckled again before diving back in and sliding a finger inside her. She nearly jumped off the bed as he hit her G-spot on the first try— _major bonus to sleeping with someone who's had basic gynecological training_ , she thought irrelevantly—and between the suction and the internal pressure and the hours and hours and _weeks_ of foreplay, she came, shuddering and calling his name.

When she'd scooped up enough brain cells to form a thought, Leonard had come up the bed so he was lying next to her, propped on one elbow, a self-satisfied look on his face. "What are you so smug about?" she asked, her voice breathy.

He gave a one-sided shrug. "You seemed to enjoy yourself."

"God, yes," she said, and tugged until he was on top of her. "Your turn."

"Well, if you insist, Christine darlin'," he said, and she shivered.

He raised an eyebrow, and she pulled him down for a kiss, sliding the tip of her tongue just inside his bottom lip and threading her fingers through his hair. "There is no reason," she whispered against his cheek, "that your accent should make me squirm, except for the fact that it's _you_."

"There is no reason that watching you retwist your hair into a bun should make me hard, except for the fact that it's _you_ ," he whispered back.

She kissed him, hard and hot and demanding. "Make love to me, Leonard. Now."

"Now," he agreed, adjusting the angle of his hips so he was lined up properly. A moment later he was sliding into her, hot and thick and _so_ good. She gasped as he hit bottom. "Too much?" he said. She shook her head vigorously, and he said, "Good." Withdrawing partway, he sank in on a slightly different angle, brushing up against— _oh!_ —everything in the best possible way.

She moaned, hands roaming all over his back, shoulders, and sides; fingers wandering up in his hair and down to his ass. He continued thrusting, pausing once to help her wrap her legs around his back and once to flip his hands around to pin her to the mattress by her wrists, watching for her nod before he resumed.

Before too long she shook off his hands; he let her go right away, and she dug her nails into his back. He shifted his weight to one side, his hips still moving, and pressed his fingers just above where their bodies met. She arched up off the bed and bit his shoulder to stifle her cry, causing him to falter for a moment, but he recovered quickly.

"God, Christine," he said, voice low and intense. "Come for me. Please? I need to hear you, darlin'."

His fingers worked her clit, and a moment later she cried out again. "Fuck, _Leonard_!" Dimly, through the fireworks exploding in her brain and body, she felt him thrust another time or two before his rhythm broke and he groaned, shaking against her.

Long minutes later, he liberated his hand from between them and cupped her head, kissing her slowly and deeply. "Christine, you are so amazing," he said, pulling back to look directly at her.

"Thank you," she said, squirming a little inside at the intensity of his gaze. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath—a little difficult with two hundred pounds of Leonard on top of her, but she managed—and said, "Come home with me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought I already did."

"No, tomorrow morning."

"You want me to walk into your parents' house with you tomorrow when you—" He paused. "Somewhere, my grandmother is twitching, and she doesn't even know why."

Christine laughed. "Okay," she said, "so I'll go home around 0700 and you can come by a couple hours later? I want you to meet my parents. For real this time."

"You sure?" he said, tracing one cheekbone with his thumb.

"Yeah," she said. "Besides, my parents already love you. You're a _doctor_ and a Southerner, even if you're from the wrong part."

"I guess that's better than a retro dancer," he said, with a lopsided grin.

"I guess," she agreed. "So, I see there's a giant water shower in that bathroom of yours."

"Is that a hint?" he asked, and she grinned and dragged him off for—if she was lucky—round two.

* * *

She was lucky.

Repeatedly.

* * *

Some hours later, Christine met Leonard at the door to her parents' house and kissed him quickly. "Relax. They're inclined to like you, remember?"

"If you say so," he said, twitching his cuffs straight.

She led him into the living room. "Mama, Dad, I'd like you to meet Dr. Leonard McCoy, CMO of the _Enterprise_."


End file.
